The Sun

The child is carried on the pony's back,
his own back to the sunflowers
that now tilt at noon.

The kid has ripped the heads
off posies for his crown,
has seized on them like Goliath
in a garden.  Otherwise, like the beast,
he's clothed in skin alone.

The pony knows the way:
first go round
then round.
Then go round again.








Everything is peaked
and perfect.  Two nipples and a navel:
simple fulcrum, unmounded skin.

The boy sprouts a red feather,
like a practice erection. His open arms
size up the universe.
The sunflowers yearn toward the blonde head
that holds no notion but now.

And the Sun beams golden S's
that echo the ripples in the toy flag.


                                                         

The Moon

I'd be lying if I said this card hasn't always creeped me out a little. Maybe it's the expression on the moon's face, like someone conjuring negative energy.  And the spikes that indicate the moon's rays - as if the moon's intention is to goad you, prod you, get under your skin.  And the net of moon-drops cast beneath it suggest her work is done surreptitiously (yes, the moon's a Her) by osmosis, by intention. The air is suffused with moon-essence. It's all so nebulous.

Check out those darkling towers.  I imagine hooded gollum-type creatures splitting 12 hour shifts in a land of perpetual night, keeping watch for....what?!  See? That's my anxiety with this card!  Where's the hope, piping in a tree? Where's the payoff, the sure thing? 

The two dogs here are absolutely wired. They don't know what gives, but they hear the call of the wild.  I gave birth during a full moon.  I get up to drink hot milk and read archaic novels during the full moon, hoping for sleep to return.  Sometimes she is beautiful to me, spilling silver on the sea, or defining a tree's thousand leaves. And unlike the sun, you can look upon the moon without fear of having your retina burned out. She is generous like that.

What's interesting is that the lowest creature in the card - both graphically and evolution-wise - is the one that's bound for glory.  While the people in the towers nod and start, while the dogs drool and sound menacing and run in circles, the crayfish silently feels its way out of the water.  This crustacean is setting out upon the good gold road.  It's not a straight road...it curves every few yards, winding up and down hillocks.  But eventually it weaves its way to the top of the mountain peak in the distance.  The one we can barely see.  The one the crayfish only senses is there, urged on by her negative capability.

Speaking of Moons....http://www.thepetitionsite.com/1/samrockwelloscar. Petition for Sam Rockwell to be nominated for the Best Actor Academy Award for Moon -

The Star

No, I'm not talking about Liam Neeson or Colin Farrell. Not Javier Bardem or Gael Garcia Barnel either.

Writing about stars for me is like writing love poems: you're inviting literary disaster.  As a creative writing teacher, I forbade them.  So, you're warned. 

There is sunlight without which we would literally die.  There is moonlight, which, everyone knows, causes babies to be born in threes, insomniacs to lie awake all night, lovers to remember why they had to have it to begin with (not to mention pole-vaulting cows). All great stuff.  But starlight?

Starlight cuts through light years of dark, winking in the velvet, timed with our pulse and breath. We are honor-bound to wish upon the brightest one.  Sailors - the good ones - steer by them still.  They are equated with diamonds in nursery rhymes - that adamant stone that will cut glass, and turn the fiercest bridezilla into a salamander as she gazes at her left hand. "Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art!" Go ahead, Google Keat's poem right now. You won't be sorry.

My grandmother told my sisters and me to 'follow our star' - to go for that wild dream.  She mailed me - Queens Village to Wellsville, NY - the most beautiful statue of the Virgin Mary, with a blue velvet sari, and a halo of stars on a tin frame.

Why is the star-lady naked?  Because she's protected, and therefore, unafraid.  Not brave - a trait that requires some kind of threat to elicit.  She's simply serene.  She knows she is good - all parts of her.  A little like Jesus, she's resting one foot on the water - utterly supported, because she believes.  One pitcher spills into the earth, the other replenishes the waters.  She is the Water Bearer of the sign of Aquarius.  Although that's an air sign, the overlay of water on the quality of wind (relationships) urges an awakening to the fact that all beings are made of the same big soul.  What Whitman called the "me myself." While you're at it, open that anthology from high school to "Leaves of Grass."  It's a tear-jerker, I tell ya!

When I was twelve, my family had moved to a ginormous old house on the top of a hill in a new city.  We had left our friends behind.  I was beyond lonely, not helped by the fact I had a ginormous bedroom all to myself.  More space to be lost in.  One night, in my pajamas, I walked to the window.  It was deep winter, but a clear night, too cold for snow. I rested one hand on a tile of leaded window, feeling the leak of cold air.  The snow on the ground was star-encrusted.  But when I looked up, one bright star mimed to me that everything was alright.  And the star saw itself reflected in my tears.

Look at the bird atop the tree.  OK, I won't even send you searching.  Here: 

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254 Emily Dickinson "Hope" is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all— And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard— And sore must be the storm— That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm— I've heard it in the chillest land— And on the strangest Sea— Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb—of Me.

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The Tower

I was goofing around with the Tarot the eve of 9/11/01.  Really annoyed that I kept getting The Tower. Impestuously kept laying new spreads in order to get something that did not fortell disaster. The Tower came up 5 times in a row.  The cards were trying to tell me something too horrible to infer.

Interesting that The Tower card succeeds The Devil.  The latter is about being addicted to the low life,  the least common denominator, the same old-same old safe thing.  And being imprisoned by that routine.  The former is about being hurled from the stronghold in the middle of a nice game of chess (or a less wholesome but equally routine activity)  and having no say in the matter.  Up is suddenly down. What was, ain't anymore.

It's the Humpty Dumpty card. Someone is losing their crown. There is no piecing things together again. Not in the same way, at least. Maybe this upset was a long time coming. Must The Tower spell out a catastrophe - even if only personal?  No. Because it is an archetype, it bears multifarious meanings. Is The Tower gonna point to a snuggly evening sipping tea and watching the telly? I DOUBT IT!

The person on the left - the crown-less one - is flying, Superman Cape ruffling madly in the winds of change, literally facing his fate, arms extended to greet it, as awful as it may be.  He is one with this little death, even if it's only a temporary death.  He is present and alert.  After that, there's not much you can do to him. The person with the crown, on the other hand, is in big-time denial, hands 'raised' to protect her chunk of gold, eyes bulging in shock.  Her present terror is worse than the impending landing will be. Of course, we are dealing with some archaic tropes here: the brave man and the frail and frivolous damsel.  But we know that fear is gender-neutral, as is courage.  (Don't we?)

Look at the little golden teardrops.  That's what they look like, don't they? They seem to be attending the human who is in the moment of terror.  They seem to be obscured from the human who is trying to hang on to the goods.  "The quality of mercy is not strained/ it droppeth like a gentle rain from heaven....."  Shakespeare said that.  We have to break our hearts to find out what's inside them.  I said that.

The Devil

As in...THE DEVIL. Be afraid.  Be very afraid.... Except, the couple at his feet don't look scared.  They look like they're leaning up at a bar on a Saturday night.  Only minus the martinis. And the clothes. He's all like, "Hey, good-lookin', didn't we meet at a party thrown by Caligula? ....or was it at a witch-hunt in Salem?  Yeah, that's it: you spurned me, so I told the elders you were cutting deals with The Big Dude there." And she's all,  "Tee-hee, I was going to say it was that lifetime that my name was Delilah, and you were this strongman named Samson."  And he's like, "Well, whatever, baby. I say, since we're chained together, why don't we take advantage...?"

See how Devil is giving the high-five?  He's inviting you to a secret hand-shake. If you get it wrong, there's a trap door beneath you he'd love to open up.  Actually, he's saying 'stop right there, have you thought this one out? There are no give-backs, once you enter here.'  If you take a good look at his raised palm, he's exhibiting the lines that determine our fate.  But they aren't lines that we didn't tattoo ourselves, every time we got caught up in in our desires. What Buddhists call kleshas. What we cling to that ends up taking us down. Our cravings. "There will be cursing and gnashing of teeth."  There will be kleshing.  There will be karma.

Bats can't help it.  Neither can goats.  Or vultures. This bird looks like he's made from a variety of critters, making himself the ultimate Beast.  But animals aren't bad.  They just don't have the same options as we with 'soul's'.  And once you get to hell...well, you have limited options.

I'm re-reading "The Scarlet Letter", which I hated in high school.  Huh - I thought - reinforcing the notion that women will be punished for having a good time.  But, the literal embodiment of Hester Prynne's good time is her daughter Pearl. Innocent, as the gem she's named for, little Pearl is a still a hellion. She goes around in  red satin dresses (17th century baby-style) and throws stones at the brats who taunt her, as well as at the high-hatted, becollared men who locked her mother up.  Vengeance is mine, sayeth Pearl!  That's purity talking...in tongues of fire.  Sometimes we have to embrace our devils....